


Hidden Kingdom

by hennethgalad



Category: Silmarillion
Genre: Ecthelion of the Fountains., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:58:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9519758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Glorfindel sees Ecthelion in a new light, when Ecthelion builds fountains for Turgon.(quite a bit has been added to this now)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phyncke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phyncke/gifts).



 

The Hidden Valley.

 

In the ilex.

Glorfindel breathed consciously, holding each inhalation to the count of three, pausing, then slowly releasing the air. His pounding heart gradually quieted, he shook out his sweating limbs. The early run had been long, the twilight air chill at first, causing him to sprint to warm himself, but now the sun cast long sharp shadows across the grass-clad slopes, and above Glorfindel a tall figure stooped among the ilex. Glorfindel frowned, it was surely Ecthelion, but to see him in the park at this time of day was so remarkable that Glorfindel, normally not someone who would intrude upon such a formal and formidable acquaintance, felt moved to address him.  
 'Ho ! Ecthelion, blessings of Yavanna upon you this fine morning ! What brings you to the park at such an hour ?' 

 Ecthelion turned his head slightly and pointed a cautious hand at the leaves over which he stooped. In a quiet voice he said 'I wonder if the square frame is really the best way of weaving.'

Glorfindel gaped at Ecthelion, and laughed softly at himself. He had known Ecthelion all their lives, they were of an age, and in larger groups had played together as infants. But their characters and interests had drifted them into different circles, and they rarely spoke beyond the exchange of pleasantries at chance encounters. Furthermore, Glorfindel freely admitted, he found the serious intellectual rigour of Ecthelion chilling and intimidating, and preferred the company of those who liked to laugh and sing. It was all of a piece with the character of Ecthelion that he should be reinventing the loom instead of enjoying the beauty of the morning. 

Ecthelion blushed, he could see that Glorfindel thought him a fool; he had not even remembered to greet him, just blurted out whatever he was thinking, like an idiotic child. He stood up straight, trying to muster his dignity in the face of the dazzling smile of Glorfindel, finding himself appalled at such beauty; the golden hair hung in tresses, clinging together and laid across the golden-brown skin by the gleaming sweat, sparkling like diamonds in the crisp dawn light. Ecthelion felt a shock pass through him, his chest crushed by the hand of a giant, his breath ceased. Time halted. 

The smile faded from the shining Glorfindel, Ecthelion had gone pale, but for burning patches of rose-pink high on his face. Glorfindel cursed his own frivolity, Ecthelion would think himself mocked, but Glorfindel could find no words, he smiled, more from habit than intent, and found his eye caught by the trees behind Ecthelion. On the instant, he grasped the solution 'Please show me what you were observing when I interrupted you ?' he said politely. 

Ecthelion blinked once or twice, but Glorfindel had always been polite, and while he might have little enthusiasm for intellectual pursuits, he was more than capable of pursuing any field of inquiry should he be so inspired. For a dizzy moment Ecthelion imagined himself leading Glorfindel into study... But within a second he had a vision of Glorfindel at the harp singing a mocking drinking-song about Ecthelion looking at cobwebs. The tale of Glorfindel and Erestor was known to all, how the scholar had loved the beautiful Glorfindel, but after years of tireless labour and with the learned and wise of Valinor beside him, had not inspired the least of interest in Glorfindel, though they had been lovers and remained close friends. Glorfindel was a soldier, unconcerened with the scrolls of lore, or the pursuit of wisdom. However, Ecthelion too was polite, so he answered Glorfindel in his customary serious manner. 

 'Observe the cobwebs; some stretch across individual leaves, while others connect leaves to each other, or to stems and branches. While humble Elven weavers are trapped in one plane, these cunning spiders alter space itself to attain their goals. We should learn from them. '  
 Glorfindel peered closely at the cobwebs, thinking  "Cobwebs !" realizing he had never given the least thought to the actions of spiders, and feeling newly arrived in a strange country. The delicate intricacy of the silken constructions was beautiful, each gleaming thread precisely placed; here a supporting cord held two leaves together, there, row after row were laid between two of the supports, each neatly parallel; it was something from an advanced text on geometry, it was exquisite. He felt his mind, like a tiny boat for a child, bobbing out over vast fathomless depths, which he knew to be his own ignorance. He looked with wide, helpless eyes at Ecthelion.  
 'They are so lovely, I feel as one who has never before seen a cobweb. But my dear Ecthelion, I have not the least notion of how this could alter the loom; you must find one more gifted in the skills of Aulë than I with whom to discuss these high matters.' Glorfindel grinned at Ecthelion 'Though I have only myself to blame, since it was I who interrupted your contemplation and raised the subject. Please accept my apology and withdrawal.' He smiled again, the full warmth of his enthusiasm directed into the eyes of Ecthelion, and noted with satisfaction the colour return to the white face. Ecthelion smiled in return, and Glorfindel found his own heart warmed; Ecthelion was such a cerebral character that it was easy to forget his physical beauty. But here, in the bright dawn, his dark hair gleamed with the red of firelight, his sage-blue eyes seemed to fill half the sky, his dark, subtle lips unfolded in the precious smile that Glorfindel had so rarely seen since life had edged them apart. Glorfindel stepped back, his heart beating faster than he would prefer; his breathing seemed more laboured than before he had paused to rest. He smiled again and bowed   
 'Valar smile on your works, Ecthelion, I must away, farewell !' and ran across the grass to the trees by the gate of the park.

But something had awakened within Glorfindel; the wound of the agonising loss of Finrod, after more than two hundred years, during which he had almost come to believe in the smiling mask he wore, ached anew in his heart. He knew that between himself and Finrod were barriers beyond the impassable mountains of Gondolin, for the mighty family led by Fingolfin also stood between them. Hope dashed in vain against the implacable cliffs of their opposition, he would never escape his gilded prison, nor could poor Finrod free himself. They were trapped, apart, and the long loneliness had altered Glorfindel; for all his charm and ready wit, the blythe smile was faded, though the vibrant spirit within him shone brighter than ever, and the sadness, for those who remembered, merely sweetened the dazzling beauty.

Ecthelion stood under the holly trees and gazed after him, motionless, as one turned to stone, beyond even trembling. He remembered the launch of Arien, the solid alteration of the nature of the air; the warmth and weight and roar of what they now called sunlight. For him, a new sun had risen, and the name of the sun was Glorfindel.

 

  
In the study.

Ecthelion sighed, his heart still hammering, though his breathing was calmer, his mind still a frenzied whirl of memory and speculation, with every thought and feeling seeming to arise from or fall towards the now central notion of Glorfindel. Glorfindel ! He sighed again and stretched his long legs; the mallorn desk was so placed that there was room in the bay of the window to stretch out even should he slide as far forward on the seat as he could. The other advantage, he realized for the first time that morning, was the panoramic view of the avenue, and since this was the principal thoroughfare for the whole of Gondolin, he felt certain that Glorfindel would eventually pass by. Since the early morning, since he had watched Glorfindel racing away across the hillside, Ecthelion had been able to think of nothing else. The commission for the design of the public fountains to commemorate the two hundredth anniversary of Gondolin seemed a trifling irrelevancy to him now. He looked down at the neat stack of parchment plans as though seeing them for the first time; the elegant lines of the first illustration seemed clumsy, wooden and mawkish with eyes fresh from the embodied grace of the vigour of Glorfindel. A part of Ecthelion wished to tear the parchments to shreds and run screaming into the street, but even as the wish solidified into thought, he gazed through the lattices of the wide window and thought of the many times he had seen Glorfindel pass his window, and of how almost always a crowd of varied size would be following at his heels, like birds behind the plough.   
After the loss of Finrod, Glorfindel had sought comfort in the arms of the actor Melairë, with whom he had had an early entanglement in Valinor. The affair had been brief, but the actor, a flamboyant figure, had been open in his own grief at the loss, and shared his tale with all who would heed him. Glorfindel, already subject of the dreams of many, became an object of active pursuit, though no other, it seemed, had caught his eye. Erestor was far away, advisor to the High King, and Glorfindel, though always surrounded by admirers, remained alone. None had dared to presume to take the place of the beautiful Finrod, child of Finarfin and King of West Beleriand, beloved by all.

Ecthelion laughed dryly at himself and ran his hands through his hair, wondering at the ill-fate that had left him alone in the path of the devastating beauty of Glorfindel that dawn, and how soon it would be until he could recover his customary mood. Then, like a cold draught at his heels, the thought began to occur to him that love itself had struck him, and that he would feel this same intense consuming fire within himself until the world ended.   
 He leaped to his feet, sending his chair crashing over backwards, and strode across to the fireplace. The sound of hurrying footsteps approached and the concerned face of the butler appeared at the door  
 'Is all well sire ?' the butler asked, and smoothly flowed across the room, raised the chair, set it in its place and flowed smoothly back to the door, as gracefully as the dancer Ecthelion knew him to be. Ecthelion smiled 'I am sorry to have disturbed you, I was engrossed in thought and moved too swiftly, overturning my chair in my clumsy way.'  
 The butler nodded gravely 'Is there anything I can bring for you, sire ? Or anyone ?'  
Ecthelion thought wildly for an instant of simply sending for Glorfindel; an invitation to dine, or even drink, might pique his curiosity. But Ecthelion immediately remembered that he himself, a dull, reclusive character, was irritated by the time wasted declining the many invitations he recieved. For Glorfindel it must be a deluge... Ecthelion wanted no part of such frenzy. He realized with horror that the butler was looking at him with what now amounted to anxiety. He frowned, then said   
 'I think I may be a little nervous. Perhaps a small glass of wine...'

The butler smiled, bowed and withdrew, in one smooth movement. Ecthelion snorted softly, if he could get the water in his fountains to flow as smoothly as the old butler, he would be a happy Elf. If Turgon chose his fountain designs to build... He moved back to the desk and picked up the sheaf of his designs, wondering anew at his boldness in even presuming to enter such a contest, against great artists and sculptors on the one hand, and great engineers and crafters on the other hand. He smiled and looked at his own hands, so young, so inexperienced, how had he ever dared to enter... An increase in the sound from the avenue raised his head briefly, and a flash of gold at the bottom of the hill caught his eye.   
 Glorfindel was there. The customary laughing crowd surrounded him, it was something like a circus parade, jugglers, tumblers, singers, acrobats, dancers... they flowed around him, vying for his attention, stallholders proffering him flowers, cakes, goblets of wine...   
Ecthelion felt something ease inside himself, the spell of Glorfindel had affected him as it affected all he met, he was no worse off now than he had been this morning, Glorfindel was as remote as Tirion still, and always would be. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, watching the unofficial procession pass his window. Glorfindel did not glance in his direction, Ecthelion felt sure Glorfindel had no notion that he passed the house of Ecthelion every day, nor would Glorfindel be in the least interested to discover that. When the shining figure passed finally behind the trees farther up the hill, Ecthelion forced his breathing to steady and his heart to slow its pounding. He sighed, looked down again at the parchments and wondered if he was truly percieving reality, or whether emotion had swept him from the path of reason and left him conjuring phantasms in his mind...

 There were footsteps and a knock at the door. Ecthelion frowned, the butler would normally simply bring the wine to Ecthelion, not await permission to enter. He frowned at the door and said brusquely 'Please enter.'  
 It was not the butler, but his father, Pelathrad, carrying an old bottle from which he was dusting the cobwebs even as he came smiling into the room   
 'So, my son, to celebrate my pride in you, whatever the outcome of the deliberations of My Lord Turgon, I have ordered up a bottle of Nectar of Ingwë.'   
 Ecthelion gaped at his father in astonishment; Nectar of Ingwë had been brewed in Valinor, by the ladies of the court of Ingwë himself, and carried back to Middle-Earth across the Helcaraxë on the shoulders of a suffering Elf. On the other hand, it would be wasteful not to drink it now that it was here, and his father was right, though he did not know why; this was indeed the appropriate occasion to taste the Nectar. He smiled and brought two fine silver goblets over to his father, who looked narrowly at him. 

 'How is it with you, my son ? There is an air about you today that recalls to me...' his voice tailed off into silence, his thoughts had run faster than his tongue, his mind was drawn to the memory of the fey voice and manner of Fëanor, to whom he had been close in his youth, towards the end of their time in Valinor. But Ecthelion regarded him calmly as Pelathrad twisted the cork from the bottle and filled the goblets with the rich plum-coloured wine. The two Elves, father and son, raised their goblets and drank, the smooth sweetness of the wine seemed like the living soul of the fruit in the mouth, then melted away in the throat, leaving a faint smoky hint of the onset of autumn, like a draught of glowing mist...   
Ecthelion nodded slowly 'Father, I shall not count the struggle vain, though my ideas be rejected by the king, for that one mouthful alone; I had no notion wine could be as exquisite as this !'   
Pelathrad smiled and nodded, looking into the dark depths of his goblet 'Indeed, for though the vines of Lorien are the richest, the ladies of Ingwë have the skills to truly delight the elven palate. Perhaps because only they can taste the wine as we ourselves taste it. What is wine to one such as Irmo ? Who can say ? Decoration ? Stimulant ? Garnish ?' he paused and drank, watching his son over the rim of the goblet.

  Ecthelion was pale but flustered, still but agitated. Pelathrad was puzzled, Ecthelion had been planning for this commission for more than a year of the sun, he had remained calmly enthusiastic throughout. This was indeed the largest project he had undertaken, but by no means the most frightening thing he had done. Pelathrad frowned briefly, there was something else here, something that he himself did not know. He looked directly into Ecthelion's eyes   
 'What has happened Ecthelion, your mood is strangely altered today, there is more on your mind than the gardens of Turgon. Come, share your thoughts with me. I may have wisdom that others have generously shared with me, to help you in your trouble.'  
The eyes of Ecthelion widened briefly and his lips parted as though he would speak, but he merely raised the glass to his lips and drank again. For the first time in the whole of the life of Ecthelion, Pelathrad felt his son to be a stranger, entirely separate from himself, with a point of view unique to himself, that could never truly be shared. He saw himself, physically reflected on the eyeballs of his son, a tiny, remote stranger, far beyond all hope of true communication, and he understood, for the first time it seemed, that his son was fully adult, a distinct person, who must be accorded the respect due to any adult Elf, and more; for here was one selected to present his designs for the commemorative fountains before the king himself, this very day. The heart of Pelathrad warmed with pride as he looked at his tall, handsome son, and he smiled warmly at him.   
 'Truly, Ecthelion, you fill me with pride, the whim of Turgon can take nothing from the accomplishment of your designs, whether they are ever carved and built is of no consequence, the project you undertook is complete, your designs are beautiful and your skill as an engineer is beyond question. I congratulate you.' He raised his goblet and drank to his son. Ecthelion smiled, but his face worked oddly as thoughts moved in his mind, his fingers knotted themselves around the stem of his own goblet until he became aware of it and drank himself, then heaved a great sigh.   
Pelathrad looked at him in consternation, this was not the nervousness of a competitor at the starting line, this was the sound of unrequited love, or he, Pelathrad, confidante to many, had never heard it before. He frowned for a brief moment. Ecthelion, at the wish of his mother, had been raised in the country, among those who shunned the crowds and noise of the city. They had lived quietly themselves, his wife finding friendship among the mothers of the other children, while he had struggled to cultivate artistic pursuits, with little success. His joy at their return to the busy life of the city had not blinded him to the fact that his quiet son seemed no closer to the social whirl than he had in the woods and meadows of Valinor. Ecthelion, for all his learning, knew little of the ways of the world. Pelathrad moved forward and laid a gentle hand on the forearm of his son.

 'Of course, if it is a matter of love, of affairs of the heart, perhaps you would choose to confide in your Mother ?' He watched Ecthelion closely, but the worried face barely changed. Ecthelion knew that his love was so utterly beyond hope that he was unable to think of it as such at all, more like an injury in an embarrassing place, not to be mentioned in polite company. He smiled, warmed by such kindness and tact, and decided to help his father out of his discomfort.  
 'Oh father, the fact is that I feel like a small child, no, the fact is that I still feel like a small child, nervous about taking my homework to show to my teacher, afraid of being ridiculed in front of others. And really, father, the small frightened child is real, he is still inside me, twisting my innards into knots, making my heart pound and my dry teeth clench together.'   
 Pelathrad smiled and held up his goblet 'Well, of course, that is partly the purpose of the wine, to wet your lips, unclench your jaws and slow your pounding heart.' He paused and drank and his eyes came to rest on the tapestry behind Ecthelion, with its view of the harbour at Vinyamar. It was an exquisite piece, the very wings of the gulls picked out in light and shade. For a moment the sea-longing rose in his heart and he smiled sadly, wondering when he would ever see the sea again. The remote horizon of the figured ocean calmed his mind, and he turned to his son and said in tones of certainty

 'Truly, Ecthelion, within each of us the infant lingers, a living memory of that which was. But also within you is the boy who succeeded so well at his lessons, and the youth who became so accomplished in the use of weapons, and the adult who plays the flute so expertly, and the engineer who designed the curtain of water in the garden to delight his Mother, and the artist whose designs will be presented to the king himself this day. I tell you, my son, I would be proud of you, of your accomplishments, if you had done only one of these things, if you were  a flautist and nothing else beside, you are such a brilliant flautist that my pride in you is a flaming jewel as precious as a Silmaril to me, kept here in my heart.' He paused and pressed a hand to his chest, then continued passionately 'But no, you are a great athlete, a mighty warrior, a thinker, an artist, you are all of these things; my pride in you burns like the very fires of Arien in my heart, and you tell me you are a frightened child ! Oh Ecthelion, no faith is required to believe in yourself, you know that within you is not merely a frightened child, but also a formidable adult, to whom the child can confidently turn for reassurance. Remember that you now tower over that child, hold out your hand to the frightened child and comfort it with the knowledge of all that you have learned and the certainty of all of which you know yourself to be capable. '   
Pelathrad stopped and drank deeply. Ecthelion blinked, turned away slightly and drank himself. Then he turned a few pages of the sheaf of parchments over and picked one out. Pelathrad leaned back to peer over his shoulder without attracting his notice, to discover which parchment it was. The clean lines of the statue of Varda were visible across the room, the precision and confidence of Ecthelion with the quill had always chilled Pelathrad slightly; the artistry was all from his Mother, he himself knew all that there was to know about people but could neither draw a line, carry a tune nor dance any but the simplest of measures. He smiled wryly, to have produced this son might be considered his Work of Art; he sipped the Nectar and nodded to himself, yes, he was content.   
 But Ecthelion carefully replaced the parchment in the sheaf, and moved behind the desk, where he leaned his head against the panes of the window with a softly ominous thud.

 

 

In anticipation.

 Pelathrad shifted the heavy bag to a more comfortable position on his shoulder and looked sourly at the hooded eagle gripping his other arm. Behind him the sky grew paler at the approach of the sun, ahead the last stars faded. The air was cool and still, even the birches scattered on the hillside were silent, pale and ethereal among the long dewy grass. The park around him was empty and quiet, the eagle on his arm had silenced the dawn chorus as thoroughly as though it had uttered a command, though being hooded it could see nothing of what was around it. Pelathrad questioned his own health of mind for the hundredth time, then shook his head and trudged on up the slope. It was a tiny thing to do for his son, a little gesture, but it would make a difference, it would make Ecthelion smile, and his smiles were so rare of late that Pelathrad would have almost been ready to shed his own blood to see one.  
 The building materials were neatly piled along the path beside him, he reached the familiar site and got into the position that the statue of Manwë would occupy when complete. It was his intention to train this eagle, in the solitude of the dawn, to land on an outstretched arm at the top of this hill, such that when the statue itself was finally unveiled, a real eagle would alight on the glass image of Manwë, and bring a smile to the face of his son. He sighed, the eagle seemed to view him with contempt, and Pelathrad was concerned that it would tear a lump from his face, which he would be unable to account for without mortifying explanations. The mere thought flushed his face with embarrassment. Reluctantly he removed the hood from the eagle. The orange eyes seemed grey in the dimness, they looked coldly at him. The eagle shifted its weight from talon to talon, and turned its head sideways and glared at him.   
Pelathrad, who had been in battles, clenched his teeth and grinned coldly back at the bird. With one hand he pulled a strip of steak from the bag and waved it in front of the eagle   
'Yes, you want this, and you know what to do !' he hissed at it, then threw the raptor up into the air. It croaked indignantly and flapped its great wings once or twice, then floated around the hilltop, turning its head to keep its eyes fixed on the idiot which supplied the steak. Pelathrad posed his arm as the statue would be, and waited. The bird sailed silently overhead, circling the hill, its focus entirely on the strip of steak. Pelathrad knew that it wanted to seize the steak and perch on the tallest tree, but he had no intention of releasing the steak until the bird was on his outstretched wrist. 

 The bird hung in the air, the figure below it was as still as stone; it might be stupid and helpless and land-bound, but it knew where steak came from, and seemed not to be dangerous. The eagle landed on the fist, and the idiot creature crooned at it and proffered the steak. The eagle fed.  
 Glorfindel, walking the last of the way up the slope behind the hill, had seen the eagle, but not Pelathrad. Emerging from among the trees he saw the bird feeding, one talon gripping the arm of Pelathrad, and made a small, throat-clearing noise to announce his presence without alarming the bird. Pelathrad did not turn but spoke in a low, steady voice  
 'Greetings, may I request that you make no sudden moves or loud noises, the bird is not friendly.' he paused, then continued 'Well, that is not fair, shall we say, the bird does not like me very much, I will not answer for how it may react to you...' 

Glorfindel walked softly nearer and smiled at Pelathrad, who he knew, both from family acquaintance in childhood, and as a fellow party-spirit. Pelathrad greeted him warmly, and explained what he was doing. Glorfindel quietly clapped his hands together in delight, inspired by the notion as well as the devotion. He could not imagine his own father even thinking of such a scheme, let alone getting up before dawn to train a hostile eagle to bring it about. Glorfindel looked around, the sky was brightening visibly, turning through white to blue, the still air was vast around them, his head was suddenly afloat in the emptiness of the void, the great ship of Arda hanging in nothingness...   
But the eagle looked at him with its contemptuous orange eye and he smiled at it and then at Pelathrad   
'It is not your son whom you honour in this way, it is Manwë himself, and the gesture will be accepted as such by Manwë, who sees all. You could make Ecthelion smile by painting your face like a cat; but you would do him, and Manwë himself, honour, by causing to happen that which all present will take as a sign. But who knows whence came the notion ? Perchance it is a sign, perchance you are the instrument of Manwë and it is at his bidding that you have come here to bring his sign to the Elves.   
 Pelathrad looked wonderingly at Glorfindel, he had never heard him so serious before. A new thought came to him. He reached for more steak and threw the bird into the air. Still as the statue he represented, he spoke to Glorfindel

 'Glorfindel, I know that you are not close to my son, but he has need of someone to confide in. His Mother and I both fear that it is a matter of unrequited love. For perhaps two years now he has been changeable in mood, restless, sleepless and irritable, not at all the demeanour of one engaged in the building of his dreams. We can get nothing from him, we have consulted his friends, but they...' his voice tailed off. Glorfindel snorted softly. The few friends of Ecthelion were famously dour intellectuals who rarely spoke to anyone beyond their circle, attended no parties and never, ever frolicked. It was inconceivable to discuss affairs of the heart with such people, they would produce equations...

 'Perhaps you would dine with us one day, I shall open another bottle of Nectar of Ingwë, and you will get Ecthelion drunk and make him confide in you. ' he turned to smile at Glorfindel 'Everyone knows that you can charm the fish from the sea.'   
 Glorfindel bowed his head and scraped at the ground with one toe, feeling his cheeks redden. 'Ah... alas, I fear that not even I can charm Ecthelion. I met him here a couple of years ago, he thought me an idiot, I am ashamed to admit that I fled him...'   
Pelathrad looked at Glorfindel in surprise 'He thought you an idiot ? Why ? Whatever did you say to him ?'   
Glorfindel told him of the cobwebs and the loom, but Pelathrd smiled 'My dear fellow, he is like that with everyone, he does not mean to be rude, it is merely that his mind is swifter than his manners. Please help me to help him, I feel certain you could make some headway with him after a few glasses of wine...'  
 Glorfindel watched the eagle settle onto the outstretched arm of Pelathrad, the spiky rows of feathers settling into place like fine armour, and he wondered what, after all, Ecthelion was made of. He smiled and looked at Pelathrad 

 'In the name of Manwë, Pelathrad, I would rather work with this eagle every morning than try to induce Ecthelion to confide in me. However, for the sake of the challenge, and your friendship' he grinned mischievously at Pelathrad 'And for the sake of whoever carried the Nectar across the ice... I shall be delighted to dine with you. When would you like me to come ?'  
 Pelathrad frowned, considering the preoccupation of his son with the sculptures he was constructing. 'After the opening of these fountains, he will be easier in his mind, I believe, and more able to turn his mind to other matters...' he said to Glorfindel, who bowed and smiled, and said   
'Truly, I am eager to see the fountains play on his sculptures, is it as I have heard, a statue of each of the Valar ?' 

Pelathrad nodded and looked across the park; tools, and stacks of building materials covered the slope, snaking across the side of the hill down to the island-strewn lake in the valley below. To his amateur eye the scene was of utter disorder, but he had seen Ecthelion at his task, striding purposefully to and fro, his clear voice calling instructions to the hundreds of volunteers who thronged to help. The fountains would be finished in time for the Festival of New Year, the pace of events made his heart beat faster, he smiled suddenly; if he himself was this nervous, it was little wonder that his son was out of sorts. He turned to Glorfindel 'Naturally, I may be entirely mistaken, my son may be merely anxious, understandably, about his work. Nevertheless, dine with us and give us your own opinion.'  
Glorfindel turned from contemplation of the building-site and smiled warmly at Pelathrad   
 'Have no fear, my friend, I will watch while the Nectar of Ingwë does the charming, from me he will get the sympathetic listener for which all lovers long, even if his love is merely of Art !'

 

  
In awe

  
  Warm spring sunshine gilded the highly polished statues, and sparkled in the jewels of the royal party gathered at the hilltop for the formal dedication of the fountains. Ecthelion watched Turgon carefully; the king stood silently, gazing up at the clear glass images of Manwë and Varda. Though not built to the scale of Ilmarin, they were twice the height of the tallest Elf. The clear statues seemed to hover in and out of sight, as the Valar themselves had coalesced into their physical forms as they willed, in faraway Valinor. The arm of the statue of Manwë was outstretched, and a live eagle had perched upon it. Turgon looked at Ecthelion and wondered if he had trained the eagle, but saw only innocent anxiety in the deep blue eyes. He looked to be awaiting Turgon... Turgon recollected himself, and smiled at Ecthelion. With a graceful gesture of the wrist he indicated to Ecthelion that the time had come. Ecthelion turned to his helpers who hurried to open the sluice by the spring and start the water flowing through the fountains.

 Manwë and Varda stood side by side, their nearer hands were upheld, palm to palm, but each held out their other arm, Manwë with the live eagle on his arm. Varda had her palm outstretched as one scattering seeds, or stars, and it was here that the fountain emerged, and fell sparkling into the white marble pool at their feet. From there it tumbled down winding steps to a broad leafy terrace. Glorfindel, on the wide steps by the stream, stared at Ecthelion as though seeing him for the first time. The sage-blue eyes were shining with delight, living flowers crowned the smooth dark hair, the sun caught the high cheekbones and the smooth planes of his face, but it was the expression that arrested Glorfindel, halting his breath, hammering his heart. Ecthelion was certain. Glorfindel had never seen such confidence. If the rest of the statues were as beautiful as the first two, Glorfindel would understand such self-assurance. It made his mouth dry, his stomach churn and his knees weak.   
Turgon and his party were beginning to stroll downhill, Glorfindel knew that it was time for he himself to move, but he could not, he could only stare at Ecthelion, as the seed of love, planted on this very hillside two years before, flowered within him, filling him with a sharp craving to be near his beloved, filling him like the roots of a plant confined in an eathenware pot, devouring all of his being. He wondered at his own ignorance, he was counted wise in such matters, but he had been blind to his own heart. Ever his dreams were haunted by golden Finrod, but the image, so close to his heart for so long, now shone with less heat, the burning agony fading as he bowed to implacable fate. Yet all through his being, creeping unseen into his spirit, the dark presence of Ecthelion had haunted him. The unknown world of the mind, which he had avoided for so long, seemed now a land of unimaginable riches, riches that he had mocked when offered by Erestor, or even Finrod. But here, in these statues, which cast his spirit back to the moment he had fallen before Manwë himself, he knew that Ecthelion had forced him, finally, to acknowledge the purpose and power of learning. His childhood on the farm had left him unmoved by the busy Elves of the city, though his loyalty would have him smile as he fought to defend them. He laughed silently at himself and tried to return his mind to his surroundings. The mountain snow shone on the heights, dazzling the eye as patches of ice caught the morning sunlight. For so long the impassable wall had been as a trap, or cage, to Glorfindel, whose restless spirit had beat in vain against the will of the cautious Turgon. Glorfindel, and many others, had been appalled at the closing of the Valley, fearing stagnation in their isolation. But others spoke darkly of the Words of Doom, and the treachery of kin, and understood the fear of Turgon.

For the first time, in his awe at the artistry of Ecthelion, he saw the beauty that could be shaped in the world by the acts of Elves, and the memory of Ilmarin returned to him. The vision that had been granted him there sprang into focus in his mind as though for the first time. He knew then the helpless fury of the Enemy, trapped in a world with limits imposed by another, as though Gondolin were a miniature copy of Arda, and the Elves themselves like children at play, imitating those with unimaginable powers who ordered their small worlds. But the fountains were a thing of grace and beauty, bringing joy to all who saw them, and the words of Ainulindalë echoed in his mind

"And this habitation might seem a little thing to those who consider only the majesty of the Ainur, and not their terrible sharpness; as who should take the whole field of Arda for the foundation of a pillar and so raise it until the cone of its summit were more bitter than a needle."

He smiled to himself, Ecthelion truly was terribly sharp. "minute precision" he thought. His spirit lightened within him, his restless eyes, ever on the terrible sharpness of the horizon, focused anew on the park, filled with brightly clad Elves, many of whom he knew, and cared for. His heart warmed at the sight; Turgon, with Idril on his arm, was pointing to the eagle with a smile on his often grim face. Even proud Aredhel, in her thick white cloak fashioned from the hide of the monstrous bear she had slain, was smiling at Ecthelion with sparkling eyes.   
Ecthelion... The sage-blue eyes rested on Glorfindel for a moment with a radiant smile. Glorfindel, for the first time in his life, understood the confusion that he had often seen in those whom he himself had smiled at. He felt the warmth rise through him, and managed a fleeting smile, but the procession had passed him, and he turned to follow.

 Glorfindel could barely focus on the rest of the statues; there was Aulë in gleaming steel, Yavanna in oak, Nienna in grey marble, on a small balcony, water foaming round her feet and pouring in a glittering curtain past the entrance to the cavern whence much of the marble had been quarried. Shadowed in the entrance, in polished black granite, sat Námo, and beside him in cream granite was Vairë the weaver. Further along, reclining by a flower-strewn bank, a gold image of Tulkas, his arms behind his head, seemed to watch Nessa, blindingly silver, dancing in the dancing waters, lithe and elegant. There the waters spilled over a final stair to the meadow scattered with fruit trees laden with flowers, apple, cherry, pear, apricot, sloping down to the lake, winding past Irmo, sculpted in clay, painted in colours of elven flesh; the only one of the Vala to look remotely lifelike was the Lord of Dreams. Glorfindel smiled, but shivered inside. How could he, the frivolous Glorfindel, hope to gain the confidence of the creator of these works of art, of engineering, how could he dare to even speak to him ?   
 At the waters edge, in brown marble, stood Oromë, from his horn the waters poured endlessly into the clear lake. Beside him, two mighty graven hounds, one drinking from the lake, the other looking up at Oromë, ears pricked, tail up, ready for anything. Behind him, in pale green marble, his wife Vána, standing among the bright flowers. On the nearest island, in a bower of lilac and honeysuckle, Estë lay asleep, also lifelike, head resting on her folded arms, clad in a robe of grey cloth. But at the feet of Oromë, beneath the waters of the lake, Ulmo lay, his glassy shape casting strange beams of light through the lucid water, baffling the jewel-like fish, his nacreous hair glowing in the sunlight of spring.

Glorfindel shook himself, people were cheering, Ecthelion was being carried on the shoulders of the crowd surging up to the palace, he himself was expected to be there. He doubted his ability to face Ecthelion, not even to congratulate him. In affairs of the heart, he had never before been the suitor. His lovers had all come to him. He had not the slightest notion of how to seduce another. Glorfindel, for the first time in his life, was afraid of what he himself might say. More than that, he was afraid of what he might do. This was Gondolin, the Hidden Kingdom, and there was no departing. Whatever he said or did, everyone would see, everyone would know, there could be no escape from the consequences. He confronted himself, seeking his own blythe courage, but it was futile. For the first time, he would have to catch the eye of another, he would have to court, to seduce. He was baffled, and all those who trailed in his wake, whom he had always found amusing, would now find their own amusement as the aloof Ecthelion scorned his clumsy advances. His mind a whirlwind of wild schemes, he followed the crowd up the hill, astonished that his heart had yet the power to stun him so.

 

 

In the garden

  
Three days after the ceremony, Pelathrad called on Glorfindel, who received him in his quiet walled garden. They sat beneath the blossoming fruit trees sipping wine, Pelathrad looking curiously at Glorfindel, who had kept to his house for the past few days, and now sat in silence, seemingly unaware of Pelathrad, or the goblet in his hands.

Finally Pelathrad said 'What troubles you, my friend ? Not ill tidings ?'   
Glorfindel smiled without turning, then slowly looked at Pelathrad, as though at a stranger. Pelathrad frowned 'Whatever is wrong Glorfindel ? Please do not suffer in silence, perhaps I may be able to help ?'  
 Glorfindel looked steadily at him, his face pale and still, then drained his goblet, and gestured to the page, who refilled it.   
 'Oh Pelathrad, you will laugh at my folly. I am envious of your son, of his genius, of his application, of his industry. I am horribly aware of my own empty, frivolous existence, and embarrassed to show my face until I have achieved something worthy of note. Even now, they gather at my door, not because of who I am or what I have done, for I have done nothing... Nothing !' he cried, and leapt to his feet, striding across the lawn and back, stopping in front of Pelathrad and gazing imploringly at him. Pelathrad, who had raised Ecthelion, knew the look of old.

  'Do sit down' he said placidly, and Glorfindel unthinkingly obeyed. Pelathrad sipped his wine and looked at Glorfindel 'What do you think you ought to have done ?'   
Glorfindel looked at him in astonishment 'Something ! Anything ! Not nothing at all... '  
Pelathrad nodded, 'You are a soldier, an athlete, and a good friend. Those are all something. Each alone is worthy, all three together is excellent. Do you know who I gave this speech to the other day ? Ecthelion.' Glorfindel gaped at him and Pelathrad snorted softly 'It is part of being alive; as the trees strive for light, we strive for excellence. Something as tangible as the fountains, well, they are easy to see and admire. But you are Glorfindel; if you were killed, this city would be diminished, for you bring laughter and happiness to people, you make the parties you attend livelier, you make people sing and dance who otherwise would not. You are a valued member of the community, and if you do not drink your wine and come to my house to dine tonight I will be most disappointed.'

 Glorfindel widened his eyes briefly, then drained his goblet and stood again. He turned away from Pelathrad, hiding his doubt and fear. Ecthelion was fully aware of who he was, and had scarcely troubled to greet him since childhood. The notion that such a great Elf should value a fool such as himself, who had squandered the love of Finrod, was absurd. But his courage drove him on, here was his chance; the very person he most wished to charm, and he had been begged by the very father of Ecthelion to charm him. It must be fate.   
He straightened his shoulders, Pelathrad smiled as Glorfindel shook back the famous golden hair, remembering the shock that had stunned the Elves when Glorfindel, in his grief at the loss of Finrod, had shorn his locks, and answered all questions only with silence. But Glorfindel, feeling the eagerness of one for whom battle is a dance, turned to Pelathrad with gleaming eyes.   
'Very well, lead on, wise counsellor, and I shall work my charm upon the artist.'   
Pelathrad stood and looked approvingly at him.   
 'That is the spirit. Come along then, I know that he will be pleased to see you. He said that he had wanted to ask your opinion of his work at the feast, but that you had merely smiled and shaken his hand. Of course, everyone in Gondolin wanted to shake his hand that night, but he will be delighted at the opportunity to get you alone.' Glorfindel looked down at his feet and set his lips, resolving to merely sip at his wine, otherwise he knew that left alone with Ecthelion, he would simply blurt out his feelings and appal him.

 

In desire

  
Glorfindel found that by sticking to neutral topics, he was able to converse more or less normally with Pelathrad, and to a lesser degree with his wife, who mostly remained quiet, though not as silent as Ecthelion. After a few attempts by Pelathrad to draw Ecthelion into conversations, they had left him to dine in silence, while they chatted idly of the doings of their friends. But his eyes returned ever to those of Ecthelion, the deep sage-blue darkened by the flickering shadows of candlelight, the black at their core widened into pools. Glorfindel felt the once-familiar feathers of arousal touch his skin, but dismissed such thoughts as folly; this was Ecthelion, grave as a statue, not some besotted admirer. Glorfindel laughed with Pelathrad at another merry jest, but his spirit quailed, his own beauty had finally undone him. The adoration he had almost come to expect had left him helpless, he had no notion how to kindle desire; he whose problem had ever been a surfeit of admiration, now finally grasped the pain and heartbreak that he had brought merely by smiling.   
The presence of Ecthelion, silently watching him across the table, seemed to cloud his wits, the long fingers of the hand of Ecthelion, curved round the stem of his goblet, brought vivid images to Glorfindel, images of desire, images of love. The candlelight shone on the smooth dark hair that cast a shadow across the smooth pale brow of Ecthelion, and the wine-red lips gleamed against the pale beauty of his strong-boned face. Glorfindel was astonished that he had not seen before how beautiful Ecthelion was, they had known each other since childhood, yet he felt that a stranger watched him, judged him and found him unworthy. When Ecthelion turned away, the long dark lashes closing like nightfall, Glorfindel writhed within, seeking in desperation for some thought or word to bring those eyes back to his. It was some time before he understood that Ecthelion had truly been watching him as they ate, and a wild hope sprang within him. But the dignity and seriousness of the formidable Ecthelion seemed to be from another world to the life of song, dance and robust humour lived by Glorfindel. He remembered their words of cobwebs and looms, and decided that Ecthelion was merely studying him as he had the spider, not watching him as a suitor.   
But the broad shoulders, the long graceful neck, the strong jaw and cheek warmed by the candlelight, held the gaze of the entranced Glorfindel, in silken strands of desire.

Ecthelion struggled to hold himself steady, his hand threatened to betray him with tremors, his heart raced within him, and every breath must be driven by effort of will. To have Glorfindel brought, however inadvertently, to his own house, to his own table, had staggered him. He had scarcely been able to take in the praise that Glorfindel had poured forth for the fountains, but his kind father had rescued him, assuming him modest, whereas Ecthelion had been almost afloat with pride. The shining beauty of Glorfindel semed too bright for the softly-lit room, the vigour of the muscular body, never still in his chair, but always gesturing as he laughed with Pelathrad, held the eyes of Ecthelion enthralled. To see the eyes of his beloved, glowing with open enthusiasm and turned on him with admiration, was almost painful. The intensity of his feelings drove the few courteous words that he might have uttered completely from his mind. A kind of despairing acceptance settled on him. If he could not speak to Glorfindel even here, in his own house, at a time when Glorfindel was truly pleased to see him and interested in what he would say, then Ecthelion knew that his wild dreams would never come to fruition.   
It was not to be. He had known his love for folly, but had put aside the thought as intolerable. The truth lay heavily on him, but he could not feel the crushing weight. He knew that pain would come, that his calm in the knowledge of despair was brought about by the simple joy he felt at being near Glorfindel, but that all too soon, Glorfindel himself would be gone, and only the despair would remain.  
But to see the golden hair fall about the golden face, to see the eyes turning again and again to his, to see the long golden fingers rest on the polished wood of the table drove his heart to thunder in his breast, and desire burned within him, scattering thought and reason.

 

Finally Pelathrad rose and held his hand out to his wife 'My son, why not show our guest the garden, and the fountain that you built for your mother. '   
Ecthelion rose, and bowed to his parents, who bid Glorfindel farewell and retired. Glorfindel, who had also risen and bowed, turned to look at Ecthelion. Despite the meal and the wine, they were both pale. Glorfindel wondered if Ecthelion was angry   
'Really, you do not have to entertain me, I do not wish to trouble you.' he said nervously. Ecthelion smiled politely   
'Not at all, besides, every artist likes to show off their work. It is only a little garden fountain, you understand, nothing elaborate. Please.' he said, 'Through here.'

The stars were kindling in the deepening sky, a gentle wind rustled the leaves and carried the scents of night-blooming flowers. The lights of the house cast bright arches on the smooth lawn, and dark-winged moths flickered past them into the shadows. An insect called rhythmically from the vine, and Ecthelion stopped, and lifted an arm in a graceful gesture.  
'This was my first piece, I made it for my mother, who pines for the sea.'

The fountain was pale green glass, curved like a wave, but a wave a fathom high, hollow within, the glass reaching over in an arch from which the water fell in a smooth sheet, a living curtain. Glorfindel was delighted, he walked through the spray into the hollow and gazed around him, the glass gave the garden a wavering, underwater air, the echoing hiss of the spray reminded him of the long lost sea, the moisture in the air seemed to soothe him. He sighed happily and stepped back through the water to smile radiantly at Ecthelion, who gasped and leaned against a tree. Glorfindel frowned and leaped forwards to support his weight with a hasty arm thrown around his waist, Ecthelion made a low sound, between a moan and a groan; they turned to look at each other. Eyes of cornflower-blue met eyes of sage-blue, but two pairs of lips, now a mere fingers breadth apart, were drawn together beyond the thought of either.   
 They were still at first, Glorfindel waited to be pushed away, all the time feeling the light and heat of Ecthelion flowing through him, and the desire roaring within himself like a furnace in a gale. But Ecthelion raised his hand and caressed the cheek of Glorfindel, then moved the hand slowly down to the throat of Glorfindel, his calloused thumb stroked the hollow between the tendons, then his hand was buried in the thick golden hair, gripping his neck, pulling him closer. Glorfindel held Ecthelion against the petal-dropping tree and kissed him with all his skill and concentration, all his passion and love, and all of his being.

 Time stopped, Glorfindel felt himself to be stunned into utter stillness, the world, or he himself, had altered beyond all hope of return. He felt at once newborn, but at the same time, more himself than he had for long, lonely centuries. He gazed into the shining eyes and found his knees weakening again. Ecthelion, sensing the slight shift in weight, put his own arm around Glorfindel, and the warmth burned away the last shreds of caution from Glorfindel. Against all his sense and judgement, he spoke  
 'I think that I have fallen in love with you, beautiful Ecthelion, Ecthelion of the Fountains, do you think that you could ever love one so foolish as I ?'

 Ecthelion gaped for a moment, astonished into silence. He blinked rapidly once or twice, and tried to swallow. Here in his very arms was golden Glorfindel, the darling of Gondolin; his first kiss had been with the love of his life, and now Glorfindel himself had uttered the words of love. If Glorfindel had not been holding him, he might have crumpled... His heart was bursting with joy and fear, but more than these, the years of hopeless love rose within him like a great wave of the Ocean, and drowned all thought or reservation.  
 'Oh my beloved Glorfindel ! I have loved you so long that it is beyond me to recall a time when I did not. I will love you forever. '

 Glorfindel searched the shining eyes of Ecthelion , but saw only the love and fear that filled them both. Words and thought dissolved, burned away by the heat of desire, and the heat from the powerful, work-hardened body of Ecthelion, muscles and ribs moving softly under his encircling arm. He knew that this was where he should be, he could feel the world setting around them, like a crystal of ice forming in a night of winter, as though the very mast of Ëa ran right through them, and the world were a solid thing, all of Time already prepared and made, themselves merely patterns running through it like veins in marble. He thought again of the beautiful statues, the lovely fountains sparkling in the sun, and lowered his eyes, how could he hope to deserve the love of one such as Ecthelion... But Ecthelion, amazed at his own daring, lifted his long pale hand and stroked the golden cheek of Glorfindel. Their eyes met again, and then their lips.

                                                             

 

 

 


End file.
